I wanted time to stop right then and there. Wanted the world to remain on that yacht, anchored in the dark water, insulated from everything waiting for us on shore. Because the outside world—Dominion Hall, Byron, the Charleston Danes, the enemies circling closer—seemed like the last place I wanted to be.
But even as I held her, even as I let myself believe for just a moment that we could stay here forever, I knew we couldn't.
The world didn't stop for people like us. It just kept spinning, dragging us with it, whether we were ready or not.
So, I held her tighter, pressed my forehead to hers, and let myself have this.
One perfect, fragile moment. Before we had to face everything else.
17
AMELIA
Iwoke up to the sound of water.
Soft and steady, the hull cutting through the harbor in a rhythm that felt almost like breathing. For a confused second, I thought I was back on some transport ship in the Gulf, wedged between crates and correspondents, counting the hours until we hit land.
Then I rolled, my cheek brushed warm skin, and everything came rushing back.
Dominion Hall. Byron Dane alive. Charlie a brother. Secrets, half-truths, and that card on the linen tablecloth like a bomb.
And Levi.
His chest was under my palm, solid and warm, rising and falling in slow, even breaths. His arm was heavy around my waist, his hand resting low on my hip, fingers curled like he’d claimed the territory in his sleep and had no intention of giving it back.
The yacht rocked gently, sun slipping in around the edges of the blackout shades. The room smelled like him—clean soap,salt, something darker that had clung to my clothes since the first time I’d followed him into a tent.
I let myself lie there and just … watch him.
It felt almost intrusive, seeing his face like this. No walls, no mission, no father standing ten feet away. Just Levi. Lashes dark against his cheekbones, mouth relaxed, a faint furrow still between his brows like even his dreams weren’t entirely safe.
Two years of anger had told me I didn’t miss him anymore.
My body disagreed.
Every place we touched hummed, awareness curling low and hot. My leg was slotted between his. My T-shirt—the one he’d dragged over my head last night when we’d finally stopped talking and just held on—had ridden up, baring skin to the cool air and the heat of his palm.
I shifted, and his fingers flexed in his sleep, tightening on my hip.
“Careful,” he muttered, voice rough with sleep. “You’re poking the bear.”
I swallowed a smile. “You were awake.”
“Mostly.” He cracked one eye open, took me in, and whatever tension was in his features loosened. “Morning, Emerson.”
The way he said my last name always did something to me. Like he was sayingminein a language only we spoke.
“Morning,” I said softly.
We stayed like that for a beat—studying each other, accounting for what had shifted overnight. The boat rocked. Somewhere above us, I heard faint footsteps on deck, distant enough to feel unreal.
“Sleep at all?” he asked.
“A little.” I traced a small, absent-minded circle on his chest. His heart beat steady under my fingers. “You?”
“Eventually,” he said. “Had a pretty good anchor.” His thumb stroked over my hip, slow and idle, like he didn’t realize he was doing it.
Heat bloomed under my skin.
